


The Torch

by hatstand



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Gen, This is not cheerful, just a little pre TLJ Poe whump, my general leia continues to have a lot of carrie fisher in her, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-04 02:35:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12761313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hatstand/pseuds/hatstand
Summary: General Organa's on her way to a summit to unite the Senate behind the Resistance. Poe's decided to fly a diversion. It...does not go to plan.





	The Torch

**Author's Note:**

> Shameless Poe whump, plus sweary General Leia Organa being angry with everything. My interests, let me show you them.

‘Great plan, buddy,’ murmurs Snap, shifting unhappily on his knees. ‘Oh no, General, let us be the diversion! Let’s make the entire fleet chase after us not you! What could go wrong…’

‘It worked, right?’

Poe offers a broken smile, raising his hands as if to say, _see, look, look how we totally got captured on purpose_ – and ruining it with a wince at the pull of the cuffs. His wrists hurt. A lot of things hurt. His limbs are still trembling from the pulse that knocked out his x-wing’s power and left him adrift till the tractor beam caught hold; his face aches from hitting the deck when they pulled him out, too disoriented to find his feet; his ribs are profoundly not ok from the few sharp kicks they got in before they brought them all here, to this vast deck inside the Destroyer. But his pride: that’s not hurt. Snap’s right. It worked. The General will, by now, be arriving safely at the peace summit on Doral Keen, to negotiate a new Alliance of peace-seeking powers – while the bad guys were all looking his way. It worked.

‘Awesome,’ mumbles Snap. ‘There’s a part two to the plan, right? One where we hatch your daring escape plan?’

‘Oh, sure. I outsourced that one to Jess. Right, Jess?’

‘I hate you,’ says Jess quietly, behind him.

‘Great start, looking forward to the rest.’

He stops talking as the sound of marching feet approaches; tries not to react at the sight of Captain Phasma at the head of a small squad of troopers. This is all feeling a little too familiar. They stop before the kneeling rows of pilots, standing to attention, as if waiting for orders. Then the trooper at her side steps forward, grabs Poe by the cuffs, and drags him from his knees to his feet.

Apparently he’s not the only one with the sharp memory.

Phasma’s head tilts. ‘I remember you.’

‘Same,’ grinds out Poe, recalling the shuttle ride to the Starkiller from Jakku; the way his blood looked spattering the chrome of her boots. But that’s not helpful, not when there’s a bunch of scared kids behind him. The whole of Black and Blue squadrons – which by now means Snap and Jess and Asty and Nunb, and a stack of trainees so green they’re still growing. They’re counting on him to lead, to fight, to be the Resistance, so he plasters on a grin. Focus. Talk it up. When you’ve got nothing else on your side, a little sass is always worth a shot. ‘I got away last time. With a little help – from one of your own troopers.’

He throws that to the guards flanking her; tries to catch an eye that he can’t see.

‘It won’t happen again,’ she says curtly. ‘This is not the First Order.’

Poe blinks, because it sure as hell looks like it. This ship is all shiny floors and gloss and space, intimidation by design. But there’s something different about the troopers’ masks this time: helmets closer-fitting and domelike, eyes demarked by larger shapes, rounded like eyesockets in a skull. They’re eerie; deathlike. And the uniformed figure who’s marching out of the corridor flanked by his own guard may as well be waving a flag that says I’M IN CHARGE, so he guesses some things have changed. Poe knows the face and the reputation from sit room briefings. Admiral Hux. Driving this ship all by himself, apparently.

‘Where’s your buddy Kylo? Musical differences?’

Hux doesn’t even bother with a dismissive glance. He stares past Poe, scans the kneeling pilots with a dismayed sneer, then sighs.

‘This is all of them?’

Phasma nods once. ‘Sir. We docked their ships, and are gathering all their navigational data.’

‘It won’t tell you anything,’ says Poe quietly.

‘And what exactly do you think we’re looking for?’ snaps Hux, now giving Poe his full attention.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ says Poe, not missing a beat. ‘That pulse that took out all the controls; it’ll have wiped our navcoms too. Anything you wanted from those ships, you won’t get.’

The General, thinks Poe; they’re always looking for the General. They think the Resistance will crumble without her – and they’re probably not wrong. Except right now she’s about to make a deal that means she won’t be doing it all alone; fighting united, not with scrapheap ships and kids behind the controls but real resources, a real fleet, and a Senate behind it to prove once and for all that the Resistance isn’t some terror group but their last best hope.

Hux purses his lips. ‘Commander, please. You must know I’m not interested in the meanderings of a handful of ill-trained pilots. We’re rather preoccupied with this little… gathering. This meeting, to forge a new path forward for a new Empire. A summit of like minds and unlike. Oh - surprised I’d heard about it?’

Damn right Poe’s surprised. Surprised, and afraid. For the General, who is attending with one personal guard, Statura, and no other protection – because they flew a diversion instead, and it worked – unless it didn’t. And the General, she can handle herself, she’d slap him down for suggesting otherwise. But she can’t handle a fleet of TIEs and a Destroyer from a shuttle, or a platoon of ground troops waiting to spring a trap.

Unless… Poe slots a few pieces into place.

‘Heard about it, maybe. But all that’s going down and you come gunning for – what was it: a handful of ill-trained pilots?’ Poe lets a little cockiness back into his stance. ‘If you knew where it was, you’d be there, not chasing us out of the sky. Maybe I had the route mapped out in my ship, but that’s fried. Maybe I might know where they’re meeting. Last time I was on one of these ships I wasn’t too great at keeping a secret. Good news for you, huh? Oh wait. Now your spooky buddy’s not around, there’s no one here who can read my mind.’

Hux’s impassive expression falters for a moment; not with dismay, but the faint tugging of a smile at the corner of his thin lips.

Snap leans in near Poe’s knee. ‘Uh. Do they have someone here who can read your mind?’ he whispers.

Poe swallows. ‘Damn, I hope not.’

He can feel the fear radiating from the kneeling pilots behind him. It’s awful, and it’s nothing close to the honest panic in his own gut at the prospect of Kylo Ren sweeping onto the deck and reaching deep and careless into his soul.

Hux’s look of triumph is almost as bad.

‘Your so-called Resistance has always been hampered by its own self-regard. I don’t need to read anyone’s mind to learn the location of the negotiations.’ Hux pauses, stepping close, close enough for Poe to feel breath on his cheek. ‘I was invited.’

‘No way,’ murmurs Jess.

‘I don’t believe you.’ Poe narrows his eyes, trying to figure Hux’s play. ‘You think people forget that fast? The Hosnian System – everyone at the summit had friends there. Family. You’re who they’re trying to stop.’

Hux feigns confusion. ‘That was the First Order. We are the New Order. Aghast at the horrors perpetrated under the uncanny command of a rogue Force-user. And quite determined to ensure such an atrocity must never occur again. Your General, for example: who knows what power she wields. She’s who they fear: the last remnant of a mystical cult. We’re the rational alternative. The logical solution. Of course we were invited. To help our new allies bring your General to heel – and quell the Resistance for good.’

He turns to Phasma.

‘Subdue the main hangar at Doral Keen. Take the other representatives into our protection, and have General Organa brought to me immediately. Disable their ships. We can destroy the base from here.’

Poe steps forward, can’t help himself.

‘You can’t – please – they came here in peace to – ’

There’s blaster fire to his left, and a scream. It’s Ollo, he can see with a moment’s glance: half their head blown jaggedly away, their green blood staining the slick polished floor. He hears the scrambling panic behind him of his friends on their knees, Nunb crying out - till they’re silenced by Phasma’s bark.

‘One more for every word, Commander,’ Phasma states coldly, her blaster still raised.

Poe steps back, quieted. He doesn’t learn fast enough, but he does learn.

‘Unless you want them all executed now, Admiral?’ she asks, and although Hux minutely shakes his head, Poe hears the unspoken statement behind the question. Now, or later. Those are the options on the table. His crew, his squad, the best hope the Resistance has of keeping just one step ahead. Now lost, on his gamble. The awfulness of it hits him like a blaster – and with it another certainty: that Hux will keep them alive long enough to bring the General here. For her to witness it.

Nope. He’s not having it. Poe flexes his fists and decides it would be worth it, the instant massacre in return for punching Hux so hard he loses teeth. At least he’d be doing something, fighting, somehow. Not waiting around.

‘Poe,’ whispers Snap, so low he barely catches it.

Poe forces his hands to relax. Of course it’s not worth it. While they’re still breathing, of course there’s still hope.

‘PX platoon. Take them to the cells,’ orders Phasma.

The death troopers march in unison, flanking the small group of pilots, dragging them from kneeling to their feet. Poe feels a blaster press into his spine. A nudge to the back sets him walking with a stumble.

‘Keep an eye on this one,’ says Hux, pressing a black-gloved hand to Poe’s chest and stopping him dead. ‘I have plans for him.’

 

**

 

They offer her a chair on the transport. A goddamn chair. Please make yourself comfortable while we devastate the known universe.

‘I’ll stand,’ she says, planting her feet before the viewscreen.

Leia Organa does not close her eyes to the future. She meets her fate. Whatever it is, which statistically speaking is generally something shitty and unspeakable that she’s not even sure she wanted to survive, but here she is, still, regardless, so what the hell, why not lead a revolution. Better than running off on a camping vacation to some island, huh? She made it this far. And she’s right, which helps, she’s always thought. When you’re sending people to their deaths, at least be right.

Statura’s here, and he wants to tell her that it was the wrong call, trusting the Senate; she can feel him buzzing with it behind her as the stars blur into a brief hyperspace jump.

It wasn’t the wrong call. You have to hold out a hand sometimes and hope someone’s out there to grasp it. Turns out they want to bite it off? Oh well. We tried.

She tried. She tried and she fucking succeeded this far, thank you, so fine, ok, she’s mad as hell right now and mostly at herself but if you want to be pissed at someone, Statura, how about these assholes that are going to kill us in an hour or two? How about the Senate that held their hand instead because they’re too damn afraid to face another fight?

Statura is still standing behind her, and he has said not one word; is, in fact, deep in meditative thought and – almost certainly, she’s too polite to confirm it – thinking of his family.

Maybe it’s time, then. Maybe she’s been doing this too long after all.

They’ll go on without her. Leia’s not arrogant. Perhaps another movement entirely; perhaps an echo of this one.

At least thanks to Poe and his ridiculous doomed-to-fail plan that she categorically did _not_ authorise, thank you deck crew – at least there’s a couple of squadrons left. Someone to carry the torch. They’ll scatter, she guesses; lie low. Try to live. And when a new Resistance or Rebellion or whatever the hell they decide to call themselves sparks and flares and burns till it means something more bright and big than bar-room talk – they’ll come back. Teach the others. Tell the war stories. Rebuild.

It’s happened before.

It’ll happen again.

Echoes. History’s full of them.

The viewscreen reveals a Destroyer, growing larger as the transport draws nearer, a cluster of TIEs swooping in the area. As they enter the docking bay, the transport has to manoeuvre carefully around more ships.

Not TIEs.

X-wings. Black Squadron. Blue Squadron.

The torch.

Snuffed out.

‘General,’ murmurs Statura.

His voice is thin, cracking under the strain. His eyes dart, guiltily afraid. He needed her, on this grim journey, she realises too late. He needed a General, a campaign, hope. To arrive with hope.

It’s time, then.

‘I need you, Commander. Whatever is to come, we will meet it together,’ she says, her eyes clear, and warm, and ready. She holds out her arm for him to take. They walk together.

 

**

 

It’s appallingly familiar: shiny floors and cold air, toasterbots and marching feet. Statura grips her arm tighter and Leia pretends it’s to support her, because that’s what she needs to believe. They descend from the transport, past the eerie fleet of Resistance ships, to the end of the hangar.

A squadron of ghost troopers awaits, their helmets smoothly domed, their drooping eyesockets like mournful skeletons.

‘Welcome, Leia Organa,’ says one in a mechanical tone, stepping forward, his weapon held across his chest. ‘You are now a guest of the New Order. You will walk this way.’

He gestures with a white-armoured glove, falling into step behind them as Leia and Statura obey.

She allows herself to be walked.

She notes the things which are different; the things which are the same.

With dismay, she realises she is the most different of all. She used to be so certain. Afraid, but certain above all. Now she is afraid of one thing. One man. Afraid she can’t forgive him and afraid she will.

She reaches out, gently at first and then with boldness. She might be afraid but she doesn’t need to be apologetic. He brought her here. Unless he’s learned a great deal of self-control – and for fuck’s sake, if he has she’s going take him apart herself for taking his sweet time – he’ll have known she was present before the transport even docked. He always could see her up close. She wonders, for the hundredth time, if that was why; if he sensed her unease. She cuts the thought off; instead sends out a resolute ‘Hey, shithead, you got me,’ or as close as she can get.

She feels nothing in return.

‘If you’re hoping for a touching family reunion, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed,’ says a reedy voice.

Hux’s pleasure at her presence radiates off him like an odour.

They’ve entered a small hangar, with a viewscreen showing the smouldering remains of Doral Keen below. Hux stands preening before it, in a uniform that seems to have perhaps two or three too many medals or buckles or braids to look quite as impressive as he thinks it does. The ghost troopers halt, then march to the side of the hangar; all but one, who lingers behind her, its weapon drawn.

Leia doesn’t miss a beat.

‘You’re certainly a disappointment. Snoke’s letting you run the show now, huh? Seriously?’

His smirk drops into an angry sneer at once.

So predictable. These Imperials. Agents of the First Order. The New Order. Whatever; these assholes need a new shtick.

‘You’ll find we have no need for baseless fantasies or magical nonsense in the New Order, General,’ he spits. ‘We will take power because we have earned it, through our superior technology, our superiority in all senses.’

Leia notes the divide. Snoke is elsewhere. Her son is elsewhere. This is a distraction and she has to survive it, because this is not the real threat. She rolls her eyes. ‘Your last superweapon blew up. I mean – _we_ blew it up. You’ve got to stop building these things with a little hole in them. It’s not that we’re not grateful, but, well; I’d like to defeat you when it’s hard, you know? Let us show off a little.’

Statura shifts uneasily beside her. She is not being the General. She is not being stateswomanlike. She is being Leia Organa in a shitty mood at these people wasting her valuable time when there’s a real war out there. If Hux can have his little tantrum, why the hell can’t she?

Han’s not here to be a loudmouth shithead any more. And she was always better than him at it, anyway.

Hux is equally nonplussed, but he recovers soon enough.

‘Forgive me, General, but I don’t believe you’re in any position to criticise. As you see, your friends from the summit are enjoying the experience of the incineration of their companions.’

He gestures, and a holo flickers into sight before the viewscreen: the Senators from the summit, clinging and weeping, in open distress at the destruction still blazing below. If she’d brought Poe and the others as planned, she would be mourning them. She is mourning the loss of her guard, Moki. Those cringing Senators are responsible for her being on this Destroyer, and every one of them is a complete fucking fool for opening the door to the Empire in its new fancy suit – but they are mourning, too.

Hux flicks the holo away. ‘A little reminder that our firepower is not in question. In fact, we’ve made certain modifications since we embarked upon our new path that I think will surprise everyone.’

‘So far I’ve mostly seen you killing people,’ Leia replies dryly. ‘It would take a little more than that to surprise me.’

Hux smiles. Of course he fucking does. She waits for him to reveal the latest planet-exploding superweapon, this one the size of two suns, or three suns, or a whole galaxy.

But instead the ghost trooper by her side simply steps forward and turns to face her.

It stands quite still, its weapon cradled in its arms, not raised to kill.

She stares it its blank face, its stiff movements, and wonders. There were robotic troops serving the Senate, once upon a time. And then clones. And then stolen children like Finn. Had they stepped back, then? Had they realised the danger of a living breathing soul inside that armour, one who could rebel, and returned to machines?

‘PX-55, remove your helmet,’ says Hux lightly.

The trooper stows it weapon at once, then depresses a control and begins to lift the domed white helmet.

Leia thinks perhaps there will be nothing inside the armour, nothing at all; an impossible unvanquishable foe.

But there is a body inside, a person, a living breathing human.

Poe removes the domed white helmet and blinks at her as if sightless.

‘Enemy,’ says Hux.

Poe drops the helmet with a clatter and raises his weapon, aiming directly for her heart.

 

**

 

_It hurts it hurts what’s why does it hurt so how do I please_

My purpose is clear and complete. I am reassured by this clarity.

_I don’t_

I have a role to perform.

I am part of something great.

I have purpose.

_I have purpose, I do, I do, I had one, I had it, just have to remember, have to, I came here to, to, I came here with, I came here with my_

The past is not valuable to our purpose. Our purpose is

_No, it matters, it mattered, I mattered_

_I_

_Stop hurting me_

_Please_

_Please_

_Please stop_

The past is not valuable to our purpose.

Our purpose is the glory of the New Order.

He knows that now so when they tell him to raise his weapon he does, because he is a good soldier.

He does as he’s told.

‘Fire,’ goes the command, so he fires.

Something like horror washes through him but it is hard to discern amid the chemical slosh in his brain. He’s very tired until he thinks so and then he is very alert. He’s very much in pain until he thinks so and then he is very numb. He’s very sure he has done something wrong and there isn’t a chemical for that, apparently.

He’s done something wrong.

He’s done something wrong.

_Please_

The past is not valuable to our purpose.

Our purpose is the glory of the New Order.

Our purpose is the glory of the New Order.

Our purpose is the glory of the New Order.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
